


Reunification

by arcanemoody



Series: The Family That Finds You [4]
Category: Batman - All Media Types, Gotham (TV)
Genre: Canon Autistic Character, Developing Relationship, Falling In Love, Family Feels, Family Reunion, M/M, Parent-Child Relationship, Past Child Abuse, Pining Edward Nygma, Post-Episode: s05e11 They Did What?, Rebuilding, Road Trips, Sharing Clothes, Sharing a Bed
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-14
Updated: 2020-06-25
Packaged: 2021-03-01 17:55:49
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 5,993
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23641201
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/arcanemoody/pseuds/arcanemoody
Summary: Three days after the first bridge is opened, Oswald asks Ed to drive him somewhere.
Relationships: Oswald Cobblepot/Edward Nygma
Series: The Family That Finds You [4]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1436476
Comments: 24
Kudos: 107





	1. Chapter 1

“The Eldridge Street Bridge is open.”

Oswald’s voice is uncommonly subdued even for 3 o’ clock in the morning. It tickles a fear at the back of Ed‘s head as he sits at the dining room table still in his pajamas, penciling notes in the margin of a blueprint (the new Iceberg Lounge, situated in the heart of the Diamond District). If Oswald pops down to visit during his intermittent insomnia, it’s usually to instruct him to go to bed. 

“I know,” he says, diverting from his own stable of usual replies (“ _you_ go to bed,” “it’s not good for you to be up this late,” “you’re still recovering”). It’s on the tip of his tongue to ask if this is about the lounge or the renovations. The manor had been spared the majority of the military‘s air strike, minus the greenhouse out back and some unexplored munitions further out on the edge of the estate. The words stall in his throat when he glances up to see Oswald…

His partner in crime is fully dressed… and dressed down. More casual than he’s used to seeing him, minus the eye patch and the dark peacoat which looks familiar in a way he can’t place in the dim light. The striped jumper he’s wearing is wine-colored, reverse-stockinette, plastic buttons undone at the collar. It’s somehow more incongruous than anything else Ed has ever seen him in -- including his own pajamas.

“Is your schedule clear today?“

It’s not. They have contract bids to review from the mainland. A mid-day meeting with Firefly and Fries to discuss the terms of a prolonged truce while the north side is rebuilt. Olga’s birthday is tomorrow and, still lacking a working bakery in the city, Ed’s pretty sure _he's_ going to be the one she appoints to prepare a Korolevskiy cake.

“It can be,” he says.

“I need you to drive me somewhere.“

Somewhere not for anyone else’s eyes. Not if he wants Ed to do it and not one of their newly hired staff.

“We‘ll need to get a car.” Something nondescript, with easily swapped plates. They would have to flash their IDs at the checkpoint, but the negotiations with Gordon regarding their pardons have made them both uncharacteristically optimistic. Anything that might jeopardize that isn't worth thinking about. “How early are we starting?“

“Now?“

“I’ll get changed.”

He throws the outfit together in ten minutes; forgoing his usual grooming routine and scrambling for something less formal to match his partner‘s “incognito” ensemble. He finally settles for a green cashmere pullover, skinny jeans, and a pair of gym shoes before throwing his checked overcoat on. By the time he emerges, slightly frazzled, Oswald is waiting at the bottom of the stairs, umbrella in hand.

“Let‘s go.“

—

The early start turns out to be necessary. Under Oswald’s direction, Ed drives more than 600 miles up the coast to Northern Maine. 10 Hours total, including breaks for gas and breakfast in the car. Ed watches the sun rise through the windshield and blinks against the glare of the mid-day sun. He recognizes where they’re going around mile 300 -- suspicions confirmed as Oswald instructs him to pull off at a familiar exit.

It’s lunchtime by the they arrive at Cardy School: Victorian structures: main building, common areas, Y-shaped dormitories with flat-share kitchens situated on the cliff side. The older children are on an afternoon break, running across a busy playground or crowded together on benches; all in uniform jackets and blouses, some casual white polos and cotton sweatshirts emblazoned with the school seal.

Their visit, it seems, is not unexpected. The dean of the school and the house-matron are standing side-by-side at the edge of the long, gravel driveway. They smile cordially as Ed parks in one of the visitor spots and walks around the front of the car to help Oswald from the passenger side.  
  
“Mr. Nashton, it’s truly a pleasure to see you again,” the dean says, reaching to shake his hand. “And Mr. Van Dahl, so wonderful to meet you finally!” 

A streak of brown curls and navy wool is all the warning they get before a tiny figure launches himself at Oswald, arms around his middle.  
  
“Martín,” Oswald chokes out a whisper, closing his eyes as he holds the child tightly. “Hello, my boy... I missed you so much.”

Ed’s voice chokes off as Martín’s left arm hooks under his own arm, pulling him into the embrace as well. He holds his breath, wonders if he’ll live to see the next one (black spots breaking out behind his eyes) before the young boy lets go.

“Shall the five of us start the tour?”

—

The tour of the grounds goes on for what seems like hours and everyone is just a little too happy to meet and talk with them.   
  
‘Here is the classroom where your son is learning Mandarin.’ 

‘This is Mr. Meister, your son’s music teacher.’  
  
‘Here is the main lunch room. We have vegetarian and gluten-free options as well as a variety of allergy-related modifications. Are you also allergic to shellfish? I've heard it can run in families.’

This last question is addressed to Ed. Oswald takes over the conversation, while he waits for his brain to stop short-circuiting. 

Martín has been excused from the rest of his classes to accompany them (apart from ASL at three). Ed catches occasional glimpses of their reflection in the glass displays: Oswald holding Martín’s hand on the left, Ed’s elbow for stabilization on the right. His heart skips a beat as he thinks about what they look like (and what everyone -- _everyone_ \-- is treating them as): a family. Not a pair of criminals plotting something untoward. Or even a wealthy donor who shipped their rudimentary heir off to boarding school in another state. But a pair of young parents and their gifted child. And, with their soft, casual clothing as well as Oswald’s feathery hair and the curls loosely falling across his own forehead... they look the part. 

Ed's brain continues to sputter and spin.

He breaks away during yet another set of introductions in the quad, wandering off towards a clump of trees near the bluffs. The fact that he’s been awake for more than 24 hours, unassisted by caffeine or any kind of uppers, is starting to make him feel sluggish: limbs heavy, eyelids heavy, head muzzy and gray. He sits down in the grass, under a large oak tree and lets his eyes rest.

He blinks awake, sometime later, as a familiar shadow falls over him.  
  
“Did you have a good rest?” Oswald asks, mouth twisted with amusement.  
  
“Not terrible," he says, clearing his throat. After three already. Well, that was probably enough sleep for now. "Are there bugs in my hair?”

“Sit up and I’ll check.” he says, lowering himself to the ground, bracing a hand on Ed's shoulder for support. Elegant fingers smoothing his hair back. “No, you’re fine. Just some crushed leaves and birch bark.”  
  
“Thank you.” He says, keeping his gaze averted as gooseflesh breaks out across his neck, fingers gripping the grass beneath him for dear life.

While the affinity he feels is not recent (if only recently named), the... _physical stirrings_ had appeared almost overnight _._ Built up over their proximity in the last year while they were both distracted by their impending escape. That first hug by the fireplace had brought it on in a wave: the familiar smell of Oswald’s cologne and pomade, the salt of his sweat and tears. So familiar and yet completely new. Heady. It‘s mortifying now that he's in Oswald’s space so much, assisting with medical needs or being an intimidating presence at his side during meetings. He wishes he could enjoy even this small intimacy: the warmth of his friend's bare skin, hands on his face and neck. But the lack of propriety feels shameful; never mind his terrible timing which sits like a cold weight in his chest, thinking of the inferior vena cava, the ratio of time between bleeding out and drowning.  
  
“You used your old name,” Oswald says, derailing that train of thought. “When you brought him here.”  
  
“It was the only ID I had on me at the time.” Ed rubs at his heels and ankles, blistered from the raw edges of too-tight shoes. Myrtle had done a sweep of the police auctions and specialty shops that trafficked in murderabilia; snatching up whatever small bits and baubles that had slipped through his fingers after his arrest: the driver’s license with his old name, a forty year-old wristwatch, his mother’s pale green peshtemal. He had grabbed the most portable items that didn’t make him feel sick to look at. "I wasn't aware you even knew my old name."  
  
Oswald shook his head.

"You are a creature of consistent reinvention," he says. "It makes sense your name would have been step 1."  
  
His tone is amused, eyes soft in a way that makes Ed's stomach turn over and warmth flood his face.  
  
"Can I ask you a strange, possibly pointless question?"

"You have to ask?"   
  
“Are you wearing my coat?”  
  
“I was waiting for you to notice that!," he smiles. "My father altered it for me after I moved into the manor.”

“He did?” It explains the shortened hem and the curved seams -- Elijah Van Dahl had taken the time to train as a tailor, though he would never need to build a livelihood from the skill himself.

“Well, it was the only coat I had at the time and it was big enough to fit two of me.”

He remembers. The naïveté of his former co-workers never failed to amaze him. The fearsome Penguin, known to have lived for a significant time in Ed‘s apartment, arrested in clothes made for someone at least five inches taller than him… not even Gordon had quailed.  
  
“He did a fine job. Also, whose shoes am I wearing?” Looking up close now, the shoes are black Converse slip ons, modified with black elastic that was a few years away from disintegrating. Nothing he had ever worn or even seen in his closet at the manor.  
  
“Mine,” Oswald laughs. "Well, I suppose they were Ivy‘s first. She dressed me in what she had.”  
  
“I’m surprised you allowed that.“  
  
“Not much choice, I was in a coma at the time.”

That image should be funny -- Oswald himself is still smirking, amused by this ancient plight. And Ed himself had undressed and re-dressed Oswald after their encounter in the woods and had an intimate recall of his distaste for being dressed in his captor’s worn flannel and fleece. Ed isn’t laughing.

“Why didn’t you tell me?”

“Tell you what?”  
  
“That Martin was your son.”  
  
Oswald's expression freezes, then shifts, making Ed think of last year: in a choked whisper in Arkham’s intake area, he had described his young charge from Sofia Falcone’s orphanage as his “ward.” A bright young boy, clever and kind, who had trusted Oswald and now his life was in danger. The losses of his parents were heavy in the words he used, evoking memories that got to Riddler and even Ed, tucked away behind his alter's strong-arming. (“Maybe I deserved to lose them both, but _neither_ of them deserved to die.”) He would not lose anyone else. He needed Riddler's help.

“I didn’t know if you would rescue him if you knew who he was. It’s not like it did him much good with the others.”

“I would have.”

“I know— I _know_ that now. I’m sorry.”

“It’s okay," he says. They've gotten very good at apologizing lately, if only to each other. “You could have told me where we were going today, too. For the record.”

“That wasn’t about a lack of faith in _you_. I didn’t know If I was even going to make it inside the gate. Every cell in my body was telling me to run.”

“Why?”  
  
“I was worried that he wouldn't forgive me. For sending him here," he swallows. "I had him for a day. Sofia was pulling both our strings. When he told me what she’d done, I shouted at him. I... I said I might take him back. The only reason Selina had an opening to come and take him was because I stepped out of the room before I could say anything else.“

This, Oswald‘s lack of faith in himself, almost hurts _more_. This part of his friend had always puzzled Ed: his certainty of eventual abandonment. The deep-seeded conviction of his own abhorrence that made him believe he was undeserving of love and that good things (and people) would be lost to him at the smallest error. He had watched as it morphed into self-fulfilling prophecy and longed to steer Oswald another way; remind him of the resilience that had saved his life again and again. And that, however Not Good and truly abhorrent, Ed himself had come back.

“My father never forgave me for being born,” he says, focusing on a distant spot in the trees. The wind picks up speed as it pulls through the branches, discarding dormant buds so that the new leaves may thrive. “That was a crime in and of itself as far as he was concerned.”

“He didn’t deserve a child like you,” Oswald says, and Ed could kiss him for the vehemence in his tone.

“I know that now. After I was mainstreamed, things were just… _confusing_ ," he swallows, fingers pulling at the grass beneath him. "Other kids had fathers that loved them, forgave them for small things, big things; never saw them as a burden. The world as it is never made much sense.”

He’s never talked about Malcolm or what he did. The one-time mayor of the city requesting a public official’s juvenile or CPS records to be unsealed would have exposed any details therein to further enquiry from law enforcement. If Oswald found out some other way, he’s never said. But of course, when would he have done so?

“Which is why you speak in riddles.” Ed glances up and the look in his friend's eye is almost fond. 

“Sometimes," he smirks. "Most of the time, it just amuses me.”

Seeing everyone else as disoriented as he felt on a regular basis was gratifying. Ed's own way of reclaiming his pride and self-worth when he came up short in everyone else's projections of who he was supposed to be. If he was never as tough as the others and had half the social ease, if it took him longer to read a room or the expression on someone's face, he was still more connected to the world (and all the ways it didn't make sense) than they would ever be.

“I never forgave him either. It was too much like letting him win.”

“Was he sorry?”

Ed thinks of the last time he saw Malcolm in person: orange jumpsuit, wrists and ankles shackled, scowling as the judge out the charges (first-degree murder, aggravated battery, resisting arrest, assault on a police officer, child endangerment). His gait had been stiff as he was escorted through the rear door, on his way to the rest of his life in Blackgate. Ed had reached for his social worker's hand as it registered that his father hadn't looked back once.

“I don’t think so.”

“Then you don’t owe him anything.“

“No. But not forgiving anyone else was like letting him win, too. I don’t need that holding me back anymore." That realization, like so many things, had taken a long time to sink in. He lets go, brushing the grass from his hands. “Was forgiving hard for you?”

“No,” Oswald shakes his head. No hesitation.

“Then I’m sure it wasn’t hard for Martín. Speaking of,” he nods in the distance as a familiar figure comes running over the grass to meet them.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Many thanks to [connerluthorkent](https://archiveofourown.org/users/connerluthorkent/pseuds/connerluthorkent) for the wonderful feedback and being a wonderful person!

Dinner with the students is separated by dormitory, with various administrators, and staff breezing in and out to supervise. There are parallel tables arranged in a fashion Ed vaguely recognizes from his own years in school. There are also smaller tables for students with visiting family. Even a set of banquette benches with matching cushions in a remote corner of the dining area, which Oswald limps toward upon their arrival. 

Ed moves through the food line, loading up his and Oswald’s trays with Martín just behind him. Perturbed by the number of fresh items and the catering staffer who smile at him. All while his brian simultaneously counts the number of food warmers with open flames under the various bins…

The table taps sharply behind him.

Martín signs before reaching for his pad to write the words.

NO FIRES. 

Underlined twice.

“Oh!” Ed laughs. “Don’t worry I haven’t done that in at least four months--”

I’VE TRIED. LIMITED FUEL -- THEY BURN OUT.

“Ah,” Ed nods. “Noted. Perhaps we should divert our attention to the canapes?”

The boy nods, gesturing towards his own tray, already stacked to the brim with sliced pineapple and toast slathered with jam.  
  
“No peanut butter, I take it?”  
  
ALLERGIES. 

“Well, _I_ understand that severe respiratory reactions can be set off by airborne particles, but one of us is going to have to tell your father.”

Martín grins.  
  
FLIP A COIN FOR IT?

\--

If Oswald minds the lack of peanut butter, he doesn’t mention it. Too distracted by the English teacher who has decided to engage him in discussions about advanced coursework for his son, to keep him from becoming “bored” and allowing the rest of his studies to slip.

“That’s a very real thing, by the way,” Ed whispers sotto voce, stealing a sesame roll from his partner’s tray. 

“I can definitely imagine _you_ getting bored by grade-appropriate school work.”

“Grade-appropriate nothing. They had to bring in a tutor from G.U. for my science and health credits. I was beyond the reach of Hilltop’s sixth grade babysitters.”

“You two are adorable,” Ms. Renier smiles. “I’m glad Martín has such a good relationship model to learn from.”

By the time the white noise stops ringing in Ed’s ears, Oswald’s phone pings. He retrieves it from his coat pocket, holding it between them so they can read Olga’s familiar cadence.

_All quiet for now.They eat like horses._

Oswald rolls his working eye. “I left a note instructing her to make up their old rooms, just in case we were delayed.”

“And we’re thinking _that_ will hold them off from destroying the house?”

“If they’re going to fight, they know to take it outside. And if they destroy any of the plants in the greenhouse… that might bring Ivy running. Then they know they’ll have bigger problems.”

“So we’re definitely going with ‘there will be minimal damage’ to the dwelling?’”

“There will be _no damage_ to anything of any value,” he says, firmly. “Olga has Edward and you’re here with me.”

Ed swallows, his bite of jam on toast settling thickly in his throat, half-chewed. He covers his mouth to keep from choking or coughing it back up.

“Your priorities,” he starts. “Could almost be called ‘sweet’...”  
  
“ _Almost?_ ”  
  
“If you hadn’t mentioned the dog before me,” he finishes. “You always do that, by the way.”

“I do not!”

Martín is grinning on his other side, a slight hiss of amused vocalization escaping. 

“I’m glad _you_ think it’s funny,” Ed replies, leaning across Oswald to smile at him.

“I am. _Very_ . _Fond._ Of that dog.” 

“Yes, you’ve mentioned that,” Ed sits back, brushing crumbs from his sweater. “Please eat your dinner before another teacher comes by.”

Too late. The principal arrives this time, along with the overseer from Martín’s dorm. Ed busies himself with scraping stray onions from his pico de guillo to the side of his plate. He’s counted twenty when the words finally penetrate his trance, via Oswald’s vicious poking.

“Edward. They’re asking you something.”

He glances up.

“We understand that it was quite a distance to drive here and it _is_ getting late in the day. We just asked Mr. Van Dahl if the two of you would like to stay in one of the parents’ dorms for the night? We have several suites free and accommodations for visitors are included in the student’s tuition benefit.”

‘Included in the tuition’ is certainly less than the handful of bills he had planned on throwing at a motel clerk somewhere on the highway. 

He glances at Oswald, noting the slight shrug.

“We‘d love to. Thank you very much.”

_\--_

Compared to the other structures, the parents’ and visitor’s dorms are almost modern: a late add-on as school enrollment expanded and the Victorian design trends gave way to Art Deco. Smaller buildings, minimalist exteriors, three floors of large suites, full-sized windows with steep concrete ledges. The dean of the institution had the foresight to put them on the top floor in the one dorm with an elevator. Their suite has a kitchenette with furnishings, an adapted bathroom. 

And a king-sized bed.

Ed holds his breath, waits for Oswald to fidget or at least comment on it. But his friend surprises him again by sitting on the foot of the bed with a sigh. He busies himself with removing and hanging up their coats as Oswald loosens the fastenings on his leg brace.

“You know ASL.”

“Sorry?” he calls out, shutting the closet door.

“I saw you and Martín at dinner,” he replies, more curious than accusatory. “You did…”

He mines a familiar sign. ‘Flip-flop.’ 'Reverse/about face-turn.' He and Martín had laughed when one of the elder children nearby mistook it for a rude gesture (though Ed found indecision rude enough). 

“I… some. Yes,” he kneels on the rug, batting Oswald’s hand away to finish the remaining buckles. “Not enough to make full conversation.” 

Five years in the foster care system and Hilltop Primary's various combined programs with the special school district had taught him many things he'd since forgotten. Sequestered in the “alternative” classroom before his high test scores in math and science had encouraged the staff to mainstream him. 

“I’m sure you’re a quick study,” he smiles. “And, knowing you, you probably retained a lot more than you’re aware of without prompting. So this is…?”

He brings his closed fists together, lifting the top one away at a diagonal angle.

“ _Umbrella_ ,” Ed blurts, confused. “How did I know that? How did _you_ know I would know that?”

“It’s a talent of yours.” Oswald mimics another sign, drawing his finger and thumb together in a small beak.

“ _Bird_. Everyone knows that one. Give me a harder one.”  
  
“Everyone?!” Oswald stops; another sign.  
  
“ _Arson_. I like this kid.”

“I’ll bet you do,” he replies, repeating the gestures. “How is _this_ arson?”

“Match-strike,” Ed says, repeating the motions. “Burn.”

“That does make sense. Okay. What about this one? I saw this one a few times in his class.”

Ed watches the spread of his fingers, the thumb on his brow bone, motions for him to repeat it, just to be sure.

“ _Dad_ ,” Ed smiles. “That one means ‘Dad.’”

Oswald’s grows still, his gaze distant and abruptly watery.

“Oswald?” Ed reaches for him, unsure even of the endgame, but eager to catch the first tear that falls. 

“I’m okay. Just… give me a minute.”

The bathroom door slams behind him, leaving Ed alone, still kneeling on the floor in the plush isolation of the room.

\--

The lights are still on when he wakes up alone, still clothed and sweating on top of the blankets. The clock radio on the bedside table flashes 2:46 at him in green neon. His shoes and glasses are still on and he can hear water running in the next room. Meaning Oswald has not come out of the bathroom and he’s been in there for… he glances at his watch to confirm. 

Almost seven hours. 

A surge of panic lurches in his throat as he makes it to the door in two strides.

“Oswald?” He raps his knuckles against the wood three times.

“ _Almost done._ ” Water splashing over the hum of jets from the bathtub. 

“Is everything okay?” He distantly hopes the grab bar didn’t slip or break. Alterations to depth perception plus Oswald’s leg injury had made balance and equilibrium a worse problem than before. “Did you fall? Would you tell me if you fell?”

“ _Yes. I would. No. I have not. Calm down, Edward. I’ll be out in a minute_.”

“Okay,” Ed steps back, “just… Okay.”

Instead of returning to the bed, he finds himself sliding down the door frame to sit on the rug, eyes tracing shadows on the opposite wall. He closes his eyes, waiting for an echo of his alter’s voice if not for sympathy than direction).

Because he doesn’t know what to do here. This feeling that fills his whole body -- it’s more than he’s ever felt at once and he has no idea what to do with it.  
  
The world had been far easier to navigate when he was divorced from what he felt and even what certain feelings meant; left to lean into archetypes, social expectations, and cultural commonalities, all of which were much easier to read. He had liked Miss Kringle: tab A. He understood now that had less to do with her so much than everything he had been told about relationships and the roles people play. He liked her... surely that meant _something._ Slot B would eventually appear if he said all the right things and did all the right things.

He almost feels the joke is on Oswald in falling for that version of Ed. A man who had to mimic other people’s words in the hope of echoing their emotional weight while understanding next to nothing about their significance. Whatever he felt was well out of reach, leaving him to decipher vague shapes and whispers in the dark. Gertrud had loved her son -- he knew that. So if he used her words, if that was only a shadow of what he thought he might feel, it was still more than he could articulate on his own.

Those lifelong barriers are no more: crumbled into dust somewhere between bleeding out on Cherry’s filthy floor and the crazed walkabout Strange’s chip had sent him on. Leaving Ed to face the void with merciless clarity, contemplating the two puzzles that he’s never been able to solve. 

The first one being _what will Oswald do next?_

The second: _what could Ed ever do that would get Oswald to happily leave him behind?_

The apparent answer to the latter—“nothing” — is overwhelming. The former has no answer at all. Because even Ed himself has never been able to predict Oswald. Not with all the data he has, not with the catalog of familiar behaviors and repeated gestures of his dearest friend collated over a period of years. 

Somehow, it’s never enough. A state of disorientation he’s never experienced and so cannot reframe... 

The sound of something rebounding off the bathroom door interrupts his train of thought.

_“Ed? I may need your assistance.”_

Ed reaches up to turn the doorknob.

Oswald is still submerged in soapy water, jets on the lowest setting, minimal lather. He’s taken the eyepatch off and a square of gauze is loosely taped over the remains of his right eye, pointed chin leaning on the edge of the tub. Ed stares, keeping his gaze on Oswald’s face (and away from the surface of the water).

“Do you need a hand?”

“I said I may need _your assistance_ \--”

“You did.”

“--I didn’t say anything about getting out yet.”

“Well you threw the bar of soap against the door. And how cold is that water--?”

Oswald held a hand up, shaking his head.

“Just… could you just sit with me?” he asked, motioning to the floor near the tub. “For a minute?”

Ed sits, folding his legs underneath him on the cold tile. He scoots close to the edge, bracing his arm against cold porcelain, ignoring the dual dangers of water-logged sleeves and indecent exposure. Oswald himself doesn’t seem bothered by the risk of either, if he even notices. 

“Can I…?” he starts, after a long moment of silence. “Is something bothering you?”

“Martín wants to come back to Gotham.”

The statement is fatalistic, a tone he’s not used to hearing from Oswald, has never heard even in the throws of hysteria and grief.

“He told you that?”

A nod, eye downcast.

“For the... Summer?” he broaches. “I thought the trust paid for tuition year-round?”

“It does. He says the other kids get to come home during break,” he pauses. “And that every Spring, a couple of kids finish out the year and don’t come back at all.”

“What did you tell him?”

“I told him no.”  
  
"Why?” Ed asks. A beat. “Wait, is he angling for ‘Gotham during break’ or ‘Gotham for good?’”

“Don’t even suggest-- don’t… _Ed._ ”

“What?”

“You’re thinking. I can tell. Your face is doing that... _thing_!” he leans in for emphasis, splashing water on Ed’s sleeve.

"I’m always thinking. What is my face doing that has you so upset?”

“I’m not upset!” More splashing. “Gotham doesn’t even have a school open yet. The districts just established an emergency board. They’re looking at September before they can even get one _built._ ”

“So, you’ve already considered it,” he says, the matter-of-fact tone earning him a brief glare. “We can homeschool for a while. He’s working with an accelerated curriculum already. I don’t think we’d need to worry about him falling behind. Of course that depends on whether we’re talking about tutoring for a long holiday break or an alternate program plan for a fourth grader that’s up to 11th grade chemistry--”

“Ed, I _can’t!_ ”

His shout rebounds off the acoustics of the bathroom, paying no mind to the sounds of rushing water or Ed’s brain. The statement itself is absurd. In a way that Ed can only parry with absurdity.

“Of course you can.”

Oswald bows his head to lean against the porcelain edge of the tub, close to where Ed’s arm is resting. He waits for him to reply for a long moment; worries that his friend may have fallen asleep and goes so far as to press the button to turn off the jets before he speaks again.

“No Man’s Land is no place for a child.” Weariness in his tone this time instead of frustration.

“There were a lot of children there,” Ed reasons. “We were rather spectacularly all set to leave a child behind there.”

“That’s different!” Oswald’s head shoots up. “Barbara has multiple spare idiots in service to her crotch gremlin. My mom was alone…!”

That, of all things, the one detail Oswald had wanted to reveal the least, brings a spate of warmth and recognition. One puzzle solved.

And this? This is something Ed can help with.

 _"You're_ not.”

Oswald holds his gaze for a long moment, lip twitching.

“Help me stand up?” he asks, voice soft.

He nods, reaching to take Oswald’s hand.

\--

Getting ready for bed brings back the earlier apprehension.

Oswald changes back into his briefs and undershirt while Ed strips down to his own t-shirt and boxers, back turned. He busies himself in the bathroom: brushing his teeth, rinsing his mouth out, plucking his eyebrows; waiting for time to settle the butterflies in his stomach. He flips the light switch off before re-entering the room.

There’s a frisson of… something as he crawls under the blankets, where Oswald is already ensconced and still with sleep. Brief but sharp: an ancient fear of needing to run, that someone could kick in the door any moment, accusations flying. The fear predates his criminal history, predates everything about his adult years. His father had railed at his mother the few times he’d fallen asleep in the same bed as her, struck him across the face when he and a male friend from up the street had done the same. It hadn’t been about sexuality or deviance (those accusations would come later). 

No one was allowed to comfort him.

The thought leaves him cold, restless even as exhaustion makes his limbs heavy and brings tears to his eyes. The mattress shifts and Ed shivers at the hands pushing at his shoulders. By the time the manhandling ended, his head was resting on his friend’s sternum. 

“Is this… to keep you from turning over?”

“Ed, go to sleep.”

He closes his eyes, letting the sound of the steady heartbeat lull him to sleep.

\--

The morning arrives too soon and passes in a blur that makes Ed feel like he’s disassociating, but for the cold dread that colors every single interaction, from their suite, to the breakfast hall, to the driveway.

Leaving feels like something being ripped away. Not just from Martín, but from Oswald and, to Ed’s surprise, even himself. 

Martín hugs both of them, same as before: an arm around each of them. It’s the third time he’s hugged Ed in two days. He ruffles the boy’s hair softly, lets his head bow for a brief moment as they whisper promises about a longer visit during the Summer session. A week at least. Two weeks, if they can (if they’re not under arrest). He keeps his gaze low, blinking slowly to maintain composure even as he holds Oswald’s arm all the way back to the car.

He busies himself with driving, allows his thoughts to narrow to gear shifts, speed limits, highway exits. No radio to distract him, no hunger or caffeine to divert them from the first, vital hours of the journey. 

Forty minutes pass before Ed hears the ragged breathing next to him. A wet inhale indicating tears. The memory of Oswald on the bed next to him in his loft at 805 Grundy, weeping in his sleep from nightmares Ed could only guess at. 

That sound, finally, grounds him, wakes him up; lets all the painful, broken edges of reality reach him. Gently, he slows the car, easing over to the shoulder of the road and killing the engine.

Before he can reach across the console, Oswald is already tugging at his sleeve, bringing his arm around to lay across his heaving shoulders. Ed leans in close, gripping his friend tightly as he hisses a muffled sob into his coat. They hug more often now, too. It had been a recurring feature of those first days at the manor: for the first time in his life, he had someone who hugged him every night before bed. The grief of losing that had hurt most in his darkest moments, when everyone else reminded him of how useless he was and how he would never have that again. 

Some time passes before he realizes a familiar face is watching them from the backseat.

“Martín!” Oswald cries, pushing Ed away and swiping at his damp face, careful to avoid the patch.

The young boy smiles, reaches to hug Oswald over the top of the seat, then Ed, who stares, dumbfounded as static fills his head. He watches as the tearful exchange hardens, growing spirited, registers the words ‘you have to go back!’ even as Martín shakes his head, signing urgently (fingers at the corner of his mouth, then high on one cheekbone)  
  
HOME.  
  
He wants to go home.  
  
Ed can’t blame him.  
  
“Oswald,” he interrupts, drawing the questioning gaze of both father and son. “We’re already 70 miles out.”

Oswald stares at him, wide-eyed and misty, cheeks rubbed raw. Ed has no idea what his face is doing but tries to convey his meaning as best he can without speaking or signing.

_You’re not alone._

_I’m here_.

_I love you._

Oswald sits back with a sigh, more relief than distress. Ed blinks slowly, his whole body exhaling.

"...I’ll call the school.”

"I'll text Olga when we stop for gas." Ed turns the key in the ignition, smiling as the engine hums to life.

**Author's Note:**

> [Playlist](https://8tracks.com/arcanemoody/reunification).
> 
> [Tumblr](https://arcanemoody.tumblr.com/).


End file.
